


You Know I'm No Good

by MoonBalloon



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonBalloon/pseuds/MoonBalloon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“People do this all the time, you know. You’re not the first and definitely not the last... It’s not so bad; you get some fun out of it too.”</p><p>Steve looks like every word he’s saying is physically paining him.</p><p>(There are a lot of things Harry has been asked to do for his band. He’s done them all with good grace and a sunny disposition, but he never thought this would be one of them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thinking on you in the final throes

**Author's Note:**

> -This only vaguely follows One Direction’s current tour schedule. It’s too much work to make it all fit into “canon”, haha. But it’s not AU. So. Yeah.  
> -What happens in this fic could be considered prostitution, but only one person sleeps with another in exchange for a service.  
> \- Idk, I just like making Harry cry apparently.

“Thought I’d be seeing you this week, Harold.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. Nick sounds nonchalant and though it’s hard to tell over the phone, Harry knows he’s angry with him - disgruntled at the very least.

“Going home for three days only makes it harder to come back.”

It’s not a lie. Going home is all well and good, but Harry doesn’t relish the idea of being mobbed at the airport, only to have a day each to spend with Nick and his mum and Gemma.

“The other lads managed,” Nick laughs to cover the hurt. His laugh would sound hollow even if the phone reception didn’t make his voice sound so tinny.

Harry swallows the lump in his throat and schools his voice back to some semblance of normality. “’M sorry, Grimm. We have a break in a few weeks, a longer one. I’ll spend the whole week with you then.”

Harry knows he shouldn’t say this; they’d agreed not to, but he can’t help the “I miss you, you know” that tumbles out of his mouth next.

There’s a long silence at the other end of the line. Harry can hear Nick starting to say something, but he takes a quick look back at the doorway to the bedroom of the hotel suite and there’s a tall shadow looming between the arch, face hidden against the light coming from inside the room; he can see the figure taking slow, leisurely steps towards him.

Harry lowers his voice even more. “I have to – I have to go,” he says, rushed. “I’ll call. I’ll call, I promise.”

He fumbles to end the call before he’s dragged back into the room by his elbow. He turns to face the other man once he’s in. He sets a smile on his face, resigned, and pulls the man in for a kiss.

-//-

It starts when the song Harry wrote with Sam is leaked. Well, they say leak, but it was a calculated release. The boys want to branch out, re-brand their music and the song’s meant to test the fans’ reaction to a different sound without stamping the One Direction label on it. The reaction is explosive – positive on all accounts. The boys have never been ashamed of their songs, _chinny chin chins_ aside, but their audience has grown with them over the years and maybe it’s time to try something different. The label – and Simon – agrees.

Now, they’re sprawled around the tour bus lounge while it rumbles along the highway to God knows what city, and discussing the possibilities.

“A Grammy…” Liam says in wonder, an awed, dreamy look on his face.

Zayn snorts, not looking up from where he’s fiddling with his laptop’s cracked screen, “Dream big, Li. We need an invite first.”

Taylor’s dig at last year’s Grammys had hurt.

“The Jonas Brothers were nominated for one,” Harry says fairly. "It’s not that much of a stretch, is it?"

Harry looks down at his lap at Louis, who tells them it’s no use yearning for the Grammys before they’ve even finished the album.

As if taking a consensus, Liam turns to Niall, “Ni?”

Niall spares a quick glance back at them from the game screen and shrugs, “Louis’s right.” And that’s all he has to say about that.

Liam huffs and snatches the laptop away from Zayn. “Give me that.”

-//-

They first approach Simon with this a month before the tour. Simon hems and haws over it, but finally agrees to entertain the idea. They dive into writing and persuade Simon to release Harry and Sam’s song. When that is received well by the majority of their fans, Simon gives them the go-ahead to continue writing.

Only problem is, the producer they’d like for this album refuses to work with them, citing “artistic differences”. He’s a big influence in the industry; artists under his direction churn out album after album of lauded material. He’s just who they need.

On their fourth meeting with said producer, Harry is asked to stay back after the boys leave. He does, puzzled. Steve from the label sees the boys out and closes the door to the conference room.

Harry grins, “What have I done now, Steve?” Of all the people in their American label, he likes Steve best.

Steve smiles back, though it looks strained. “You’ve caught Vig’s eye.”

Harry perks up, surprised. “How come?”

“He likes your song with that Sam kid. He thinks you’ve got more potential, band or not.”

Harry sits back against his chair and shrugs, “Don’t really wanna go solo now, mate.”

“He’s not asking you to,” Steve soothes. “He wants to take you guys on.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “But he just said –!”

“He wants you to –” Steve starts, but Harry interrupts him.

“We’ll work hard. We won’t goof off in the studios – or – or waste his time.” Harry’s excited. Months and months of planning and pleading and arse–kissing have gone into this.

Steve shakes his head. “That’s great; he’ll appreciate that. But he wants something from _you_.”

“S’not something like Taylor again, is it?” Harry asks warily. Taylor was nice enough, but that was a fiasco from the start.

Steve looks nervous, “Not – not exactly like Taylor. He wants to… hang out with you.”

“Hang out with us?” It makes sense. They can’t work together if they’re not comfortable with each other.

But Steve says, “Just you.”

Harry can't help but be a little cross. “Told you I’m not going off on my own to make an album.”

“You misunderstand. He just wants to, er, get to know you.”

“Just me?” Harry asks.

Steve nods, takes a deep breath and, with the air of a man forcing himself to rip off a very large Band-Aid, says, “He’ll work with you guys, but _you_ need to, uh, spend time with him.”

“Me? Spend time with him?” Harry repeats slowly.

Steve nods, fidgeting with his shirt sleeve. “Kind of like – kind of like you and Taylor, but – but more,” Steve finishes lamely.

“More...” Harry trails off. It takes a few seconds for his brain to register the word and another few to process the meaning. His eyes widen.

Steve has the decency to look ashamed.

It would be comical, the way he’d delivered the _request_ if Harry wasn’t so disgusted by the idea.

“People do this all the time, you know,” Steve says hastily. “You’re not the first and definitely not the last... It’s not so bad; you get some fun out of it too.”

Steve looks like every word he’s saying is physically paining him.

Harry feels the same. He chooses his words with great care, “This… It’s not the same as being seen around town a few times with Taylor. However you word it, it’s not. We didn’t,” to Harry’s great embarrassment, he feels his throat tightening. “We didn’t sleep together.”

“I know,” Steve says quietly.

They sit in silence for a while, then Steve pats Harry’s knee as he gets up. “Just - think about it. Talk to Vig. He’ll be in the city until tomorrow night, so you have plenty of time to decide. Here’s his card.”

Harry sits in the room for a long time after Steve leaves.

-//-

Harry doesn’t sleep that night. They’ve chosen to stay in the tour bus instead of going in to a hotel, so it’s harder to get time alone. Maybe that’s a blessing because if he thinks about what’s being asked of him, his stomach churns and he feels sick. When it’s acceptably late, he claims exhaustion and excuses himself from the bus lounge. On the way to the door, he passes through an obstacle course of limbs, all trying to tug him back down. Usually Harry would relent, even if he were exhausted, but he doesn’t feel much like roughhousing or even cuddling tonight. He shoves his way through them all, annoyed at the wall-to-wall cushioned seating of the room – whose idea was that anyway – and stumbles to the bed area. He brushes his teeth mechanically, strips off his shirt, and climbs into his bunk, snapping the curtains shut against all light.

By the dim light of his phone screen, he reads the card Steve had given him earlier that day. He’s not sure why he keeps rereading it, but it’s the only concrete evidence of what he’s been asked to do. It seems like a dream still, something morbid his tired brain has cooked up in its sleep.

He tosses and turns all night, trying to find a comfortable position. The gentle rolling of the bus as it drives to the stadium they’re playing the next night does nothing to help, only increases his nausea. He gives up on sleep around half four when dawn starts to break. He plays around with his phone until he hears the others stir in their beds. He gets out of bed when everyone else does and quietly eats breakfast at the fold-up table in the main area of their bus. He’s trying to be as inconspicuous as possible and doesn’t realize Zayn’s talking to him until Liam rubs his shoulders.

“Harry?” Liam looks concerned.

Harry jerks out of his thoughts at Liam’s touch, a bit disoriented. “Hmm?”

“Deep thoughts?” Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head, cracks a smile. “Nah, just lost track for a bit. Tired.”

Louis narrows his eyes; Harry is terrible at lying. He opens his mouth to ask again, but Niall nudges him and shakes his head.

Harry is eternally grateful.

Zayn, having silently listened to the conversation, says, “Was just asking you ‘bout your plans today. Tommo and I might go out.”

Only Zayn would say the grammatically correct “Tommo and I” instead of the casual “me and Tommo”.  
Pretentious little shit.

Zayn cards a hand through Harry's curls soothingly and Harry is immediately sorry for the thought. He shakes his head, “Might go shopping with Cal for a bit. Steve’s asked me to go in again.” Steve has set up a lunch _meeting_ for him with Vig.

Louis is still looking at him like he’s suspicious, “Why’s ‘at?”

“Taylor’s said something about me in an interview or something,” Harry invents wildly. He has a brief, childish urge to cross his fingers behind his back for the lie. 

Louis nods skeptically, “Riiiight… Well, if you’re up for it after, text.”

Harry nods, though he plans to do nothing of that sort; he’ll come back to Niall. He feels like he’ll need a cuddle after lunch and Niall’s are the best.

-//-

Harry stands in front of the lobby lifts of the hotel where the producer – Vig – is staying, trying to pluck up the courage to press the button to call a lift. In the end, the decision’s taken out of his hands; a woman in a summer dress calls for the lift. She sends a quick smile his way and he smiles back. Her husband comes up behind her with two little boys in tow. She’s beautiful and he wishes for a brief moment that it was him taking her soft, caramel hand in his, that he was the man teasingly tugging the tight, short curls of her hair to make her laugh. His eyes burn and he looks away.

When they’re all in the elevator, he stands in one corner and pretends to scroll through something on his phone. He reaches his floor and follows the hall signs to room 914. He thought he would have to force himself to knock on the door, but his traitorous hand does it before he has the chance to steel himself.

-//-

Lunch goes… well. Vig shows him out of the suite with a lascivious smile on his face and a squeeze to his hip. His fingers brush Harry’s skin under his shirt; Harry does everything to hold back his repulsed shiver, but fails.

They set up a dinner for two days after, when the boys will be near L.A. Harry enters Vig’s personal number in his phone and swallows to stop the bile threatening to come up his throat.

-//-

The lads are ecstatic when Vig calls them personally to tell them he’s looking forward to recording with them. He tells them he’s arranged for seven courtside seats to a Lakers game. That night, Cal picks up their tickets from will call and a VIP host shows them into the court. Cal and Paul take seats on either side of them, protective as ever. The lads have never been this close to the action and it’s thrilling, the feel of the ground shaking under their feet as Kobe Bryant runs past them.

Harry supposes there are advantages to sleeping with the most sought-after producer in the industry.

-//-

A day later, Harry tells the boys and Lou he’s spending the next two nights at Cal’s. Cal drives him to Vig’s house, keeping up a steady stream of _you don’t have to do this, you don’t have to do this, Harry. Just give me the word and I’ll call it all off. I’ll call him myself, you don’t have to do this._ Harry’s patience breaks halfway through the drive and he angrily tells Cal to _please just drive_ before he loses his nerve. Thirty minutes later, he finds himself waiting to be let in through the wrought iron gates of a sprawling villa on the L.A. hills. There’s a spectacular view of the city below, but Harry couldn’t be less interested in scenery.

But he pretends to care as Vig shows him around the house. It’s enormous and tastefully decorated and Harry would appreciate it under normal circumstances, but all he can feel now is his heart beating fast with the feeling of impending doom.

They have a few drinks in the sitting room, chatting about the Lakers game and L.A. itself. Harry forces himself to pay attention to Vig’s words, not his hands and not how they’ll be touching him soon. He has two drinks more than strictly needed. His hands shake as Vig pulls him close by his waist and presses their lips together.

He stiffens, can’t bring himself to kiss the man back, but Vig strokes his jaw in what he thinks must be a soothing gesture and Harry realizes there’s no use resisting. He’s agreed to do this thing and it’s only for a few months anyway. They kiss on the sofa for a while before Vig leads him to the lavishly decorated master bedroom.

Vig pushes Harry down on the king-sized bed. It’s meant to be gentle, but Harry’s caught off guard and he stumbles, landing gracelessly on his elbows and arse. Vig crawls over him, pinning his hips down. He curls a gentle hand around Harry’s neck, fingers in his hair, and pushes him down until Harry’s shoulders are flush with the bed. Vig sits back on his knees and strips off his shirt, getting off Harry to remove his jeans. He’s fit. He doesn’t have abs or rippling muscles, but his stomach is firm and his biceps have strong definition. Harry breathes a sigh of relief.

Vig’s looking at Harry expectantly now, so he hastens to get his kit off too, leaving only his briefs – he’d like to keep them on as long as possible. Vig pushes him down again with a smile and a murmur _of so hot, you’re so fucking hot_. Harry lets him kiss his lips and plant kisses all the way down to his collarbones. Vig starts to suck on the wing tip of one of the swallows, but Harry pushes him away.

“Not there,” Harry shakes his head. “Please.” He rubs the spot to remove the feel of Vig’s teeth because the last person who touched him there was Nick.

Vig shrugs, “‘Kay.” He presses his lips to the top of his left pec instead, sucking with his teeth, flicking his nipple with a nail.

Harry gasps, arches his back, and bites his lips prettily, but it’s all for Vig’s benefit. He’s never been less aroused in his life.

Vig rubs against Harry’s thigh and continues flicking his nipples. His hands roam all over Harry’s chest, but it’s doing nothing for Harry, so he surreptitiously reaches down and gives his own cock a firm tug, rubs the head just how he likes it. He feels himself start to get hard, so he moves his hand back up to Vig’s shoulders. Vig’s tugging at the waistband of Harry’s shorts now.

“Get this off, yeah?” He growls while he works his own boxers down his legs and off.

Harry lifts his arse and tugs his briefs down, freeing his cock to the cool air of the room and Vig’s eager gaze. Harry is not sure what Vig will do at this point, but the man actually licks his lips before stripping off his own boxers and leaning back over Harry’s body, coming to a rest when they’re nose to nose. He bends down for a kiss and Harry gives in to him. He thinks the kiss would be soft and slow and tender under any other circumstances, but the only thing he can feel now are his hands shaking as they slip into Vig’s short hair.

Vig breaks off the kiss to say, “Mind blowing me, babe? I’ll do you after.”

 _I mind very much_ , Harry wants to say, but he just nods and slips out from under Vig to push the man back on the bed. Vig parts his legs for Harry to settle between them. Harry’s on his stomach and his shoulders are touching the inside of Vig’s thighs, but he pushes down the distressed sound climbing up his throat and resolves to make this the best blowjob anyone can give under the circumstances. The ink’s not on the contract yet and Vig’s well within his rights to withdraw his offer if he’s not, well, satisfied.

Harry licks his hand and pumps his fist down Vig’s cock once to ease the passage, then sucks his cock in as much as he can take in one go. He’s got Vig halfway down his throat when he starts to feel him harden even more inside his mouth. He pulls off before he starts retching and sucks the tip, working his tongue slowly down the underside of his dick, then back up, then down again from the top. He flicks his tongue at random spots in between and takes a perverse sort of pleasure in hearing Vig’s breath hitch and feeling his hand tighten in Harry’s curls.

“Gonna come if you keep that up,” Vig mumbles.

Harry shapes his mouth into a tight O and drags his lips up Vig’s dick, slipping it out of his mouth with an obscene _pop_.

He lifts his head – his practiced, cheeky grin in place – and says, “Fuck me instead?”

He just wants this over with, really.

Vig laughs, “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

Harry shrugs in response as if to say, _I am, now do something about it._

Harry’s good at this – the banter, the cheeky back-and-forth. A few more days of this and he might fool even himself into thinking he enjoys the sex.

Vig sits up and motions for Harry to come closer. Harry does, kneels between Vig’s legs, and Vig kisses him, slow and tender again; Harry wants to throw up. It’s not that the kiss is unpleasant, but when he thinks of who is kissing him and why, he can’t breathe under the pressure crushing his lungs.

Vig cups Harry’s dick, strokes him gently and Harry tries hard not to flinch. He doesn’t quite manage it and Vig pulls back to look at his face, his eyes questioning. Harry tries to feel better that Vig isn’t taking his consent for granted, but can’t quite manage that either.

Vig must not find anything concerning in Harry’s expression because he kisses him again, rougher this time and tells him to turn over.

“Hands ‘n knees, Harry,” he breathes into his ear, biting his earlobe and pulling the skin between his teeth. Harry refrains from telling him that it hurt, that he doesn’t like being bitten in tender places like that.

He gets on his hands and knees instead. Vig taps his thigh to get him to set his legs wider, but with Vig growling “wider” in his ear, it feels more like a sharp slap than anything else. He sees Vig pull out a bottle of lube and a string of condoms from under a pillow at the head of the bed, and feels sick that Vig has stashed them within arm’s reach.

Vig works him open with slow strokes and a lot of lube and Harry is grateful enough to push back against his fingers. Harry folds his arms on the bed to push his arse higher so Vig has easier access. He tries not to think about how much of a whore he must seem like to Vig, who huffs out a laugh when Harry moans into the pillow clutched in his arms.

“Don’t make much noise, do ya?”

Harry shakes his head, makes a note to make his moans more believable, and says, “Not much, no. Feels really good though.” It does, a bit; Vig’s just hit his prostate. He probably doesn’t realize it since he doesn’t search for the spot again, just moves his fingers in and out aimlessly.

When Vig deems Harry prepared enough, he slides in slowly, hand on the small of Harry’s back. Harry moans for real this time; Vig’s dick has considerable girth and it stretches him in a way Harry has always liked. The first few thrusts are slow, but as soon as Vig’s hands move from the small of Harry’s back to grip his hips, Vig thrusts harder and faster until Harry can actually hear the _thwack thwack thwack_ of Vig’s thighs hitting the back of his. Harry’s dick swells in spite of himself and he resigns himself to a good fuck.

But Vig is not quite satisfied with the angle it seems because he leans over Harry, his chest flush to Harry’s back, and kisses the back of his neck until Harry drops his head onto his folded arms, which raises his arse even higher in the air. Vig fucks into him in earnest then, a litany of _fuck fuck fuck_ falling from his lips. His nails dig into Harry’s hips as he puts his whole weight behind his thrusts and Harry bites his forearm to keep from groaning in pain. Vig curls his hand around Harry’s dick and pumps a few times. He doesn’t seem to care that Harry’s dick isn’t wet enough and that his hand chafes around his dick.

Vig comes after a particularly rough thrust that catches Harry’s prostate dead-on, and Harry damn near comes himself at the feel of Vig’s dick throbbing inside him and the tip of the condom  expanding with his come. Vig pulls out, none too gently, but Harry’s dick doesn’t get any softer. He tells himself that it’s a natural reaction, that it doesn’t mean he enjoyed this or wanted it in any way, but there’s a niggling thought in the back of his mind reminding him that he came here tonight of his own volition, no matter the reason.

He’s brought out of his reverie by a slap to his bum - Harry flinches - and Vig’s teeth sinking into his right earlobe. “Roll over.”

Harry obediently turns over onto his back, and Vig kisses the spot he’d slapped moments earlier, murmuring an apology. “Got carried away, sorry.”

Harry waves his hand airily, “S’nothing. You gonna suck me off or what?”

Vig laughs fondly, “Yeah, yeah.” He leans down to take Harry’s dick in his mouth.

He wants to pretend it's Nick, but it doesn’t feel anything like Nick’s mouth, so Harry squeezes his eyes shut and pretends Vig is some random he picked up in a bar and not a man nearly thirty years his senior. Harry lets Vig know when he’s close and Vig takes his dick out of his mouth to jerk Harry off on his belly. Harry comes in three short spurts and the tight feeling constricting his heart pours out of him with his orgasm. Vig settles beside Harry and cradles Harry’s jaw with one hand before kissing him softly. Harry can practically feel the silent _thank you_ against his lips.

Harry feels obligated to cup Vig’s cheek too and they kiss for a moment more. When Harry pulls away, Vig lets him go with a kiss to his wrist.

If he notices the deep, crescent-shaped bite mark Harry has left on his own arm near his _Things I can’t_ tattoo, he doesn’t mention it.

Vig nods sleepily when Harry asks if he can use the shower, then watches as Harry wraps the bed sheet from the top of the comforter around his waist and pads across the hardwood floor to the ensuite bathroom.

Harry closes the door softly. He turns on the light and is careful to turn on the bathroom fan to mask all noise, before rushing to the toilet and throwing up his dinner. The wine burns his throat on the way up, but Harry retches again and again until there’s nothing left in his stomach and no more tears welling in his eyes.

He swills water around his mouth and looks around the bathroom.

He picks out a loofah from a gift basket of bathroom products and steps into the shower. He turns on the water as hot as he can stand, soaps up the loofah, and rubs his skin raw until he can feel nothing but the roughness of the sponge against his skin and the hot water beating painfully onto his back.


	2. This is when my buzzer goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly a year later, I have finally mustered the courage to post the second part of this fic.

_How well do you know your own ceiling?_

Someone had asked him that once, before pushing him back on his bed and climbing on top of him. Harry can’t remember his face exactly, but he remembers being in awe of his grace – the way he held herself, the way he moved. He remembers thinking he could spend the rest of his life with him, given half a chance. But then again, he falls in love so easily when he’s drunk.

He thinks about him every now and then. Well, about his question. It saddens him sometimes that he doesn’t know his ceiling at all, that he’s never slept more than three days in a row in his own house, but he knows others – the ceiling above his bunk on the tour bus, above Ben and Meredith’s attic, above Ed’s couch in his flat, above Nick’s bed with its unnecessary amount of throw pillows. He knows that last one very well.

So as he lies in his suite at the Hollywood Roosevelt, surrounded by impersonal cream-colored sheets and carefully chosen, neutral decorations, he thinks of all the ceilings he knows and how and why he still likes Nick’s best. It’s probably the sheer amount of time he’s spent looking at it over the last two years. Missionary was never better than with Nick Grimshaw.

Gemma finds him like that, lying in bed and staring morosely at the ceiling. Whatever has happened to put her little doughnut in a mood, she hopes Lux will help. They’re on babysitting duty for the afternoon.

“You’ve been ignoring your calls,” she accuses once Harry looks over to where she’s standing at the door of his room.

Harry looks more chastised than the reason calls for. “Sorry. Was on silent.” He sits up, then holds his arms out for Lux who abandons her plans of sticking to Gemma’s legs like a barnacle in favor of jumping onto Harry’s lap.

When they’ve tired Lux out with everything in their combined arsenal of iPhone games and satellite TV, Gemma thinks it safe to ask, “So what’s wrong with you then?”

“Nothing’s wrong exactly. Just missing home.”

“Missing Grim?”

Harry looks at her mulishly, “Maybe.”

“Well, no more brooding now. You’ll be on a flight to the ol’ Queen by the end of the week and you can mope all the way to Heathrow then.”

Harry flops back on the bed and covers his face with both of his hands. “Don’t know why I’m moping really,” he says through his fingers.

Gemma curls her fingers around his wrists and pulls them gently away from his face. “You miss him. It’s all right,” she reassures him.

Harry nods. “I’m a bit nervous to go back if I’m honest.”

“Harry –” Gemma starts to tell him that’s silly, but is interrupted.

“No, it’s all right. I know I’m being…” Harry waves his hand around to indicate whatever he thinks he’s being, but Gemma gets it. They haven’t seen each other in a long time and Harry has been avoiding Nick's calls for weeks now.

Gemma takes his hands in hers and squeezes. “It’ll be all right. He’ll understand, Haz; he always does.”

Harry nods. “That’s what makes it hard, I think. To be such a dick to him."

"Why are you being a dick then? Why are you blowing him off?"

Harry is silent for a moment. "Because it seems easier?" he says uncertainly.

Gemma rolls her eyes. "You're only hurting him. And yourself."

"Yeah, well, I've not exactly been the perfect not-boyfriend since tour started, why try now?"

Gemma reaches up to slide her hands through his hair soothingly. When Harry closes his eyes with a pleased sigh, she grips his hair hard and yanks his face closer to hers.

"Ow!"

"Listen, we've all had enough of your moods. You're going to take a shower, then you're going to call Nick and apologize."

Harry's eyes are watering, though she doesn't know if it's due to the difficulty of what he's being told to do or the tight grip she still has on his hair.

He pulls away from her grip and she lets him go. "Yeah, all right." He looks sad.

The change has come gradually, Gemma has noticed. Harry has always been a happy boy; the sundry ups and downs of life rarely keep him down for long. But there is a perpetual gloom to Harry’s face now beneath his smiling exterior. It’s hardly noticeable; Gemma doubts even Zayn has realized, perceptive as he is. But Gemma has seen that sadness before. On Anne’s face, just before the divorce, whenever she thought no one was looking. Harry was too young to remember, but it’s not an image Gemma can ever erase from memory.

She hugs Harry then - bad cop, good cop - and gently pushes him towards the bathroom. She watches him walk away, waits until she hears the toilet door shut to flop back down on the bed and pull Lux away from the fort she's built by bunching up the comforter and pillows and onto her chest. Lux looks around at her, affronted, then squirms out of her grasp. Gemma dives for her, growling playfully. Lux giggles and quickly slides down to the floor, taking half the bedding with her. There's a heavy thudding sound as something slides down the comforter and off the bed. She leans over the edge of the bed and sees Harry's banana yellow phone on the floor, face down. Lux looks up at Gemma, eyes wide in apology. Gemma sighs.

"That's all right, love. Give it here."

Lux climbs up on Gemma's lap and holds out Harry's phone like it's an olive branch. Gemma gladly accepts. She's inspecting it for damages when it vibrates in her hand. She doesn't mean to look at the incoming text, but it flashes on to the dark screen.

_Don't forget our deal, Harry. I want to see you tonight before I see you at the studio tomorrow._

It’s from someone in Harry’s phone set as _Producer Vig_.

Gemma's heart turns over in her chest. She thinks for a moment that it can't possibly be what she's thinking; Des always says she has a flair for the dramatics – _runs in the family_ , she fires back cheekily every time. But “see you tonight” – well, what else is she supposed to think?

The bathroom door opens and she drops the phone like it's suddenly scalding hot. She quickly puts it face down on the side table before tugging her own phone out of Lux's hands and opening up the first app she sees, looking busy.

Harry comes in to the room wearing only shorts and a tank. He goes straight for the side table when he spots his phone there. It takes a moment, but a small wrinkle appears between his brows and his mouth turns down into a frown when he reads the message.

When he looks up from the screen at her, Gemma pats her lap invitingly. He hands her the towel he's holding and lies down with his head in her lap, frown still firmly in place. She ignores the water from his hair seeping into her jeans, just rubs his hair dry.

It's a comfortable sort of silence and she hates to break it, but she needs to ask. "Was thinking of going out tonight. Just to a few shops, maybe. There's a gallery opening, Lou was saying. You up for it?"

"No, I was planning to go around to Cal's for the night." His voice doesn’t waver with the lie.

Gemma looks down at Harry and nods like she doesn't know where he's really going. She wants to bring it up, ask him why he's sleeping with his producer when it's clear he doesn't want to be, ask him what could possibly be worth giving himself away like that, but he closes his eyes and hums contentedly when she resumes drying his hair, so she lets it go.

-//-

That night, Harry goes off in his vintage white Mercedes with Cal in the passanger's seat. Gemma wants to believe that Cal knows nothing of the arrangement and that Harry is really going to his house, but it's more likely that Cal is his willing alibi. She thinks of all the times she's seen Harry off somewhere with Cal in her short time in L.A. on tour with the boys, and she wants to drag him from the car and yell at him for letting her little brother do this, for facilitating their _meetings_. There's a sour taste in her mouth just from thinking the word.

She makes it a point not to meddle in Harry's life or badger him about any of his decisions - her brother is smart and shrewd and can handle himself well on his own - but Harry comes back the next day looking more tired than he has all week; he has bags around his eyes like he hasn't slept all night, his shoulders are hunched around his ears, and he winces sometimes when the boys get rough in their play, and Gemma can't keep the fury from her face.

She feels helpless in the face of this. She doesn't know if the other boys know, though she can’t imagine they would be okay with Harry doing this. She doesn’t know the protocol, doesn't know if she should confront Harry or let this play out. She can only think of one person to go to, but she has a feeling Harry won't appreciate her interference there. She should stay well away from this. She should let Harry work this out for himself. It's none of her business, but it's her _little brother_ , and Harry's tired face and sad eyes haunt her at night.

She makes her excuses and books a flight to London the next day.

-//- 

She stands on Nick's doorstep with her luggage, having come here straight from the airport. She feels a bit foolish because she's calculated the time difference wrong and Nick won't be home from work for a while, but she can’t go home before she tells Nick. She needs to do this before she loses resolve. So she sits on the front steps and waits for Nick to come back from work.

He's home in another half hour. He looks happy to see her, though she suspects that won't be the case for long. She makes them both tea and pulls him by the arm to his sofa. When they're settled, he turns to her.

"How was the popstar life? Still driving schoolgirls mad with jealousy?"

Gemma rolls her eyes, "Well, the tour wasn't quite the charmed life Harry made it seem. Traveling on the bus was a bitch."

Nick feigns shock, " _Really_ now?"

Gemma smacks his chest, "Be nice to me. I'm horribly jet lagged."

Nick throws an arm round her shoulders and pulls them both back against the sofa cushions. He's oddly quiet, and Gemma sees the question coming.

"How is Harry?" The question is asked casually enough for it to feel anything but casual. 

Gemma doesn't know what to say. So she shrugs and they leave it at that until Nick breaks the stillness by reaching for his cup of tea.

"He's... well enough, under the circumstances," she says slowly.

Nick stares at her for a bit. She carefully avoids his gaze.

"What are the circumstances?" he asks finally.

"He's doing something that's making him unhappy."

"I'm sure he has his reasons. He's a big boy," Nick says. Gemma can tell Nick is stifling his concern.

She shrugs, "I don't much like his reasons."

"So you know what they are." It's not a question.

Gemma finally looks Nick in the eye, "I can guess."

He sits up straight then. "Are you going to tell me what he's doing and why?"

She considers it one last time, then nods, "I think so."

"Would he want you to tell me?"

"I don't think he'd want me telling anyone. He doesn't know that I know. Or, well, that I've guessed."

Nick swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "You shouldn't tell me then."

Gemma shakes her head, "I know, I know! But I can't just _not_ tell anyone. I don't know how to stop him or what to say or – or anything."

"And he absolutely needs to stop this?"

"He's tired and unhappy and – and hurting," she says, quick to assure him of that.

Nick picks at the afghan on their laps. "You think I can get him to stop? That he'll listen to me, when I haven't heard from him in weeks?"

Gemma grasps his arm, desperate. "He's coming home in two days. He's been miserable; he thinks you're angry with him –"

"I am angry with him," Nick says quietly.

She sighs. "He knows. But if anyone can stop him, it's you."

"Okay, okay. Tell me." Nick takes a deep breath, steels himself for the worst – another round of public outings – turning his private life into a circus again – or drugs – coke or… or _heroin_ , Jesus Christ. Nick can think of a million things, but what Gemma says next has him so startled that he nearly drops his tea.

"I think – I think maybe Harry is sleeping with his producer so he'll work with the band."

-//-

Harry can’t live with himself sometimes. He’s fine when he’s with the lads – and Lou and Lux and Michael and Paul. His fans. The smiles come easy and his heart is light. But it’s hard to hold on to that feeling when he’s alone, when he has time to really think about what he’s doing.

They’re recording during the tour so Vig is with them more often than not, which means a lot of sneaking around for Harry when they’re not in L.A. He waits until everyone is settled in their rooms before sneaking out of his. Most nights, he runs into Paul who patrols the corridors until midnight in case of errant fans; they’ve learned to buy out one entire floor of the hotel, but Paul is fiercely vigilant. He’s also very suspicious. He watches Harry letting himself into Vig’s room every night with a frown. Harry thinks Paul must know by now – maybe not the how and why of it, but he’s probably guessed that Harry doesn’t go to Vig’s room to watch viral Youtube videos and play iPhone Scrabble.

Paul pulls him aside one night, away from their cluster of rooms, and asks him straight out what he does with Vig when the boys are asleep or out. They’re working on songs, Harry lies.

Paul pulls a People’s Eyebrow that would put even the Rock to shame, so Harry flashes a smile and hugs him around the middle. Paul sighs but squeezes Harry with his arms, briefly lifts him off the floor, and Harry revels in the feeling; when Harry was younger – it’s been _three years_ now and isn’t that something – Paul used to throw him over his shoulder and carry him out of the room whenever Harry made to follow one of Louis “ideas”, muttering under his breath about their shenanigans.

Paul knows him as well as any of the lads now when it comes to the bare bones of it and Harry can feel Paul’s eyes on his back as he fumbles with the key card to Vig’s room.

-//-

Harry likes recording and Vig is brilliant – they’ve never sounded better – but Harry is happiest on the days when Vig goes back to L.A. He sleeps with Liam on those nights because Liam misses Sophia and Harry likes waking up to a familiar face. It’s a shame Liam can’t be persuaded to wank together anymore; it was almost soothing, that first year on tour after the X Factor. They laugh about it now sometimes, but Harry wishes he could go back. He loves the fame and all that comes with it, but life was much simpler when he got to see his mum a few times a month and didn’t have his producer’s dick in his mouth during lunch breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmu at [drinkson1d](http://drinkson1d.tumblr.com/) to discuss this or whatever else you like. Thank you for reading :) xx

**Author's Note:**

> -Gay men are constantly stereotyped as perverted and predatory, especially in their relationships (platonic or not) with younger people, but in no way is the character Vig in this fic a reflection of actual gay men. This character is an extreme and meant to be taken as such.  
> -Chapter and fic title from Amy Winehouse's "You Know I'm No Good". Because we could all use a bit more Winehouse in our lives :(


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